


The Battle of Germantown

by Sunnyrea



Series: The War [8]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF
Genre: 1777, Battle, Historical, Lams - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-23 23:22:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15617289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunnyrea/pseuds/Sunnyrea
Summary: The Continental army attempts an offensive attack against the British camp at Germantown. John Laurens fights with the vanguard while Alexander Hamilton stands at General Washington's side, until the battle turns ill and one of them is injured.





	The Battle of Germantown

Alexander Hamilton rides through darkness only now lifting from the beginning of their march toward Germantown. Hamilton rides past American troops, flashes of white from the papers tucked into each man’s hat, better to differentiate friend from foe in the night. Hamilton is unsure if the same piece of paper still clings to his own hat what with his riding back and forth along the column. He dearly hopes so as he would not wish to fall from friendly fire.

“The fog, sir!” One Lieutenant calls out to Hamilton, somehow recognizing him or the green of his aide-de-camp riband.

“Yes, I know,” Hamilton shouts back but does not stop.

A fog has begun to fall around their near sixteen-mile march through the night. It is as though with the coming sun, providence felt they must have some other difficulty upon their offensive. He feels his eyes too wide as he tries to see as best he can with the final onset of sunrise. Though the sun is a welcome help for sight against the encroaching fog, it is less so for the state of their plan. 

The Continental Army marches in four columns now in their attempt of an offensive attack on the British position in Germantown. Their hope had been to use the cover of darkness for their march and to arrive upon the British troops just as the sun rose and catch them unprepared with an attack from two sides. However, their march has not progressed as quickly nor as far as hoped for. They have heard little from General Armstrong’s column on their right flank since the march began, no doubt any riders lost in the dark, though cannon fire was thought to be heard but minutes past in the far distance. General Smallwood and General Greene’s columns on the left flank have proceeded further, Tench Tilghman reported back on this before Hamilton left on his ride toward the head of their center column under General Sullivan.

However, Hamilton rides back toward the rear of the column and General Washington now. He clutches a note in his hand, though it is little needed for what he saw with his eyes and heard shouted toward him by his fellow aide-de-camp positioned with Sullivan’s column.

“British pickets!” John Laurens had pulled his sidearm and pointed toward the back of the column with his other hand. “Go, Hamilton!”

It is sunrise now and the front of their column has encountered British scouts closer to Mount Airy than their goal of Germantown. So, Hamilton rides away from the man he would prefer to fight beside and aims instead to warn his Excellency, the battle has begun.

 

“Fire!” The regiment Captain shouts from the ground near Laurens’ horse.

The line of soldiers fire into the fog, only the first row of British pickets visible with such mire. Laurens adds his gun to the barrage though he cannot tell any hit he may make or no. He cannot help thinking of Brandywine so recently with such similar conditions; does the fog feel need to follow their fight? The next row of soldiers fire at their Captain’s command while the others reload. 

“Fire!” A different Captain shouts while another cries, “Advance!”

Laurens works to reload his pistol as he reaches the end of the next line. He can only see half their men in the fog, spread out along Germantown Road and into the trees. He hears the sound of the British fire coming on – a Scottish accent, some cries of ‘where’ and more shouts. A man near Laurens yelps and falls to his knees with blood on his cheek.

“Push them back!” Laurens shouts, riding his horse to the front of the line of men nearest him. 

He sees the confusion on many of their faces and he cannot help but feel the same; as they move it is harder to tell where the line of British begins or ends with such a fog. They cannot see more than thirty meters ahead of them. Laurens finishes loading his pistol again then rides on around the first Delaware Regiment, Colonel Hall determinedly leading his men forward. The third Maryland regiment pushes furthest forward, almost lost in the fog and Laurens rides after them. Then Laurens hears the sound of cannon from the opposite side. He turns quickly to see a hole appear in the line behind him, men scattering either from wounds or escape.

“Form up!” Someone shouts. “Form up!”

Another bang of shots ring around Laurens on either side. They must get past these pickets and keep on to Germantown. It is the main force they seek and they cannot be stopped here. Laurens rides forward with the men on foot. He sees, through the mist, the flash of an officer’s epaulets and a white wig almost matching the fog. Laurens swings his gun arm up and fires. He sees the officer twist around a moment later and fall from his saddle. Laurens grins in triumph, holsters his gun once more and pulls his sword out from his sheath just as he reaches the British line. 

Laurens slashes his sword down, one man falling under his blade. He kicks his horse’s side and rides forward, clashing his sword against the bayonet of one British soldier who blocks him just in time. Another boy tries to turn his rifle up toward Laurens but Laurens managers to knock the weapon from the boy’s hand with his sword. The British Regulars start to move backward, attempting to reform their line and fire in sequence one more. They are not yet retreating, however. Laurens looks around him, the rising sun adding a new difficulty as it oddly reflects off the fog.

“Come on,” Laurens shouts, “push them back.”

Laurens hears the cannon once more, hears shouting. They need more men, another regiment or even two to bring forward. The fog is surely worse than Brandywine. Laurens turns his horse about, riding back and looks for General Sullivan.

“Laurens!”

Laurens turns at his name, a gunshot too near making his horse jerk. He sees a familiar face riding up to him. “White?”

Major John White rides up to Laurens, his sword in hand. White and Laurens returned on the same ship together early this year from Europe to join in the revolution.

“God man, I did not know you were with the vanguard,” Laurens says.

“I am a volunteer aide to General Sullivan now.” Laurens raises his eyebrows as White nods. “As you to General Washington.”

“Yes.”

“And that is just the thing. We must send a message to His Excellency about the fight begun.”

“It is done,” Laurens says. “I sent Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton back. I suspect he should reach the General presently.”

“Good,” White says, turning his horse about. “We are engaged too soon and some way yet from Germantown.”

“What of Wayne? If we overwhelm them –”

“Yes,” White says, “I am to ride and call them forward. The British cannon may do too much harm to our vanguard without assistance.”

“I can ride to –”

Laurens does not get a chance to tell White where he might ride as his words abruptly cut off by a sudden gunshot through his shoulder.

 

“General Armstrong has engaged a regiment of Hessians,” Richard Kidder Meade says, handing the note over to his Excellency.

“Where?” General Washington asks.

“Along Manatawney Road.”

“He must move on, if they remain there –”

“Sir,” John Fitzgerald cries as he rides up, “General Wayne and his men have been brought up to join Sullivan.”

The General whips his head around. “So soon?”

“The British have cannon and –”

“It is the fog,” Hamilton says, looking back the way he came some time past. “It adds too much to the difficulty of the fight.”

“Conway has pulled forward,” Joseph Reed says, riding up behind Fitzgerald now. “They hope to overwhelm the enemy by numbers.”

“And then push on to Germantown,” The General says gesturing at Hamilton who pulls up his travel writing desk once more. “Sullivan must finish with these pickets and continue to the main force. Mount Airy is not our battle ground.”

“Yes, sir,” Hamilton says as he starts to write.

“Where is Greene?”

“We have not heard from him yet,” Robert Hanson Harrison says, seated closest to the General’s horse. “Tilghman has not returned.”

Hamilton and Meade quickly flash a look at each other but say nothing. Hamilton thinks about Laurens as he writes, the sound of the distant gun fire as if a blow to himself with each shot. He wants to write to Laurens, wants to write ‘ride back,’ or ‘please survive.’

“Sir!” The General, Harrison and Hamilton all turn to see Tench Tilghman riding up behind them from an unexpected direction.

“Lieutenant Colonel,” the General says in surprise. “You have news of General Greene?”

“No,” he says in a rush, his breath fast. “It is the main advance. They have pushed the pickets back but –”

“How far?” Reed asks.

“And the cannon?” Harrison interjects.

“There is a house, a mansion,” Tilghman says, answering no question. “At least a hundred British troops are barricaded inside. It is right before Germantown.”

“Sullivan must press on.” General Washington looks to Hamilton. Hamilton nods as he closes his letter. “Our goal must still be the main force of General Howe.”

“A fortified house?” Harrison says low to the General but enough so Hamilton may hear.

“Yes, a problem.” General Washington gestures to Tilghman. “To Sullivan.”

“I may…” Hamilton starts but Tilghman takes the letter from Hamilton’s hand before Hamilton may object more. Tilghman turns his horse about and rides off into the fog, Hamilton losing him quickly.

Hamilton would rather ride forward, see the battle with his own eyes, see where Laurens stands. Instead he sits on his horse near the General and he waits.

 

Laurens jumps down from his horse beside a stone statue of some indefinable woman flanking the entry road to the Benjamin Chew House known as Cliveden. At least two of General Sullivan’s regiments line the front grass of the imposing two story, stone mansion. The wood shutters are closed over the windows of the first level and he sees lines of men with muskets all along the second floor windows. The American lines fire up toward the windows, some men sheltered behind trees or the small stone busts in several places decorating the lawn. However, most remain in the standard fighting line on the lawn which provides little cover against an elevated and fortified position. The British shots inflict far more damage than their own. Laurens watches men fall with starting rapidity.

“We must get them out of that house,” Laurens says to a Captain near him.

“Sir,” the man concurs but looks forlorn at the possibility of how.

“Have your men aim for the lower windows,” Laurens says to the Captain. “If we can dislodge those shutters it would give us some exposure on them and even possibly an entry.”

“Sir,” the Captain says again as he puts a hand to his hat and dashes back toward the side of the house.

“Laurens!” Laurens turns to see White ducking a shot as he hauls himself up against the too small statue beside Laurens. “What are you doing?”

“What does Sullivan say?” Laurens asks.

“Laurens…”

“We might storm the house. This ‘form up and shoot’ does little against a fortified front.”

“You are shot, Laurens!” White insists.

“I am well.” Laurens tries to shift his bloody shoulder away and less in sight. “It went through. But now we have this.”

“You should fall back.”

Laurens turns a sharp glare on White. “Fall back?”

“We have men enough and you are wounded.”

“I am well!”

“It is a gunshot wound!”

Laurens scoffs hard. “I can still fire my gun and wield my sword; even ride should I need. I can attend to a wound when the battle ends.”

White shakes his head. “Not if yourself should be ended sooner. Do you still bleed?”

“White, enough.”

“No!”

A gunshot hits the statue above them, the face of the stone woman mangling into jagged chunks. Laurens turns around the edge of the base, his pistol still loaded, and fires toward an upper window. He cannot see any responding hit on men or building. The smoke from their gunfire mixes much with the fog now. He wonders, if they continue so, will they be able to even see the house if they are not a few feet upon it?

Laurens twists around again and looks at White. Laurens pulls him by his lapels and puts White’s back fully against the statue. “Stay here.”

“What are –”

Laurens, however, moves away before White may protest more. Laurens runs along the green and into the regiment lines. His shoulder stabs in protest at his movement but he pays it little mind. Laurens looks for General Sullivan among the men. He knows this one house and men inside is not their aim; they must strike a more critical blow but nor can they leave this mansion-made-fort in place. A Corporal falls back into Laurens’ path, spots of red forming on his upper thigh. Laurens darts around him, no help Laurens could give now. Then he sees Sullivan on his horse, sword draw shouting over the noise. Laurens sees a familiar face also mounted beside him.

“Tilghman!” Laurens shouts as he reaches the pair of men.

Sullivan holds a letter now, reading it with a clearly sweaty hand.

“Tilghman,” Laurens says again. “What word?”

Tilghman moves his horse closer to Laurens. “Dear God, Laurens, are you shot?”

“What of the advance?” Laurens asks insistently.

Suddenly a hand pushes hard against his wound making Laurens cry out. He turns to see White with a handkerchief pressed against any continued flow of blood from Laurens’ shoulder. Laurens frowns but White only glares back, holding his hand still over Laurens’ wound.

“General Sullivan’s division must continue on,” Tilghman says, favoring Laurens’ question over his state. “The main body of the British is yet before us.”

“But the house…” White starts to say.

Tilghman nods. “Yes, the General meets on it even now. I think they are like to continue the assault here.”

“We simply need to force them out,” Laurens exclaims.

“White,” General Sullivan calls. “Here.”

White grabs Laurens’ hand and places it where his own had been with the handkerchief. Then he skirts around Laurens, pulling a small metal cylinder with pen and ink from his coat. If they should leave a regiment or two here, Laurens feels certain they may take the house given time. Yet the position is far more advantageous to the British within and should they waste time on it? Laurens cannot help but feel they must continue the barrage if only to have no British victory at their rear, however minor. 

Laurens looks up to Tilghman again, waiting for White to write Sullivan’s reply. “Where is Hamilton?” Laurens asks.

Tilghman puts a hand to his hat as another shot flies by too near in the fog; Laurens fears unknowing friendly fire. “He is with the General,” Tilghman replies. Then White hands Tilghman a piece of paper and Tilghman rides off with a clipped, ‘sir,’ toward Sullivan.

Laurens turns back to the house – Hamilton far from this firefight and safe – thinking instead of how they might breach its walls.

 

General Washington knocks his fist loudly on the table at Billmeyer House causing the arguments around the table to stop suddenly. The sounds of gunfire from Cliveden, the center of their discussion now, sound clear and close from their hasty war room on the main road into Germantown.

“We must decide swiftly, gentlemen,” General Washington says to the surrounding officers. “We cannot debate until ammunition disappears.”

“If we leave but a regiment to besiege the house,” Harrison says, “it should be enough and not worth expending such extra effort when we still have the whole of Howe’s force to contend with.”

“But then the house remains still in enemy hands upon the path of our retreat,” Reed says.

“You think we should require a retreat?” Hamilton retorts.

“I think I should not like them behind us,” Reed snaps back.

“It is a fortified location,” Brigadier General Henry Knox, their artillery commander intones, “As dangerous as a true fort directly behind us, one which they could use to change this battle to us in the middle, fighting two sides, instead of they. I would not leave a well-fortified garrison in control of our rear.”

General Washington nods. “A weak point we cannot afford.”

The men in the room look between Knox and his Excellency. Knox then gestures toward the sound of battle beyond the window. “We must storm the mansion and take it back.”

The General glances at Harrison who now appears more convinced with Knox’s words. Then His Excellency nods, “Bring up Maxwell’s brigade from reserve,” General Washington points at the spot on their map where Maxwell should be then looks up at Meade with a nod. Then he points to the line that would be Germantown. “Sullivan and the main body continues on.” He turns his head to Knox. “I believe you have some cannon that may do well against such a house?”

Know smiles making Hamilton think of Laurens at Brandywine, ready to rush into the fray. “Indeed, I do,” Knox replies.

The various men turn from the room, messages to send and troops to move. Hamilton stays where he stands near the General and attempts to focus on their map with the sound of gunshots still tearing through the early morning, fog beyond the window and Laurens where he cannot see. His body feels so tense and such knots in his stomach as all he must do now is wait, pen in hand, horse outside. So Hamilton waits, he waits.

 

A Lieutenant walks out of the American lines with a white flag in hand toward the mansion. He holds it high above his head, waving it slowly from side to side. Laurens stands near White who remained even as most of Sullivan and Wayne’s forces moved on and Maxwell’s arrived to replace them. General Knox sits in seat some yards behind them near the cannon which rolled in with him. The fog seems somewhat less oppressive now what with a brief cessation of their gunfire. They all wait as the lone Lieutenant approaches the house.

He nears the front steps, some rubble of stone chipped from the house due to their fire in his path. “We ask for your surrender,” the man shouts. “Lay down your weapons and you will receive quarter.”

“How many might be left as prisoners?” White asks. “A hundred? That would be a fine victory.”

“We have yet the entire army still,” Laurens retorts in a hush. “I would call that a better prize.”

“Surrender, sirs!” The Lieutenant calls as he puts one foot up on the stairs.

Then a shot breaks the still and the Lieutenant jerks. The white flag falls from his hand and his arm cradles his chest. He falls to his knees then onto his back. A cry rings out from a regiment on the far left – the Lieutenant’s own regiment.

Knox shouts, “Prepare cannon! Attack!”

Laurens grabs White’s lapel and pulls him forward through the ranks, knocking one man back and another to the side. Laurens ducks low as gunfire starts to erupt from both sides. 

“Idiot!” White shouts as they dodge but he does not turn back.

They reach the man bleeding on the ground, a gunshot pinging off a chunk of stone near Laurens’ boot, and both grab an arm. Laurens feels fire burning in his own shoulder as they pull the fallen man back across the ground. They reach their own lines, the men making a hole, and bring the Lieutenant to safety. Laurens looks him over quickly, as another man drops down beside them.

“Bill!” He snaps, gripping the man’s chin. “Come on now…”

Laurens sees blood seeping from a torn hole in the man’s uniform, high on his chest. Two more men appear on the Lieutenant’s other side.

“Lieutenant? Lieutenant Johnson!”

Laurens sees the man no longer breathes. Laurens stands up again and wants very much to run straight at the house and hack at the wood of the door with his sword until it gives way. Laurens turns back around as the sound of cannon fire booms to his left. He takes a step then sways. The fog grows thicker before his eyes, the shouts of men less distinct. Then someone grabs his arm tightly.

“Careful there.” Laurens blinks to see White holding onto his arm. He frowns. “I did say you were shot.”

“No.”

“You are not shot?”

“I am but –”

“Sir,” White says with the tone Laurens has heard from some of his fellow aides-de-camp when speaking with his Excellency. “You must withdraw and see to your own wound. It does the fight little good to have you so.”

Laurens turns his head back to the Chew mansion. He sees men huddled behind every statue firing toward the house. A cannon shot blasts through the fog once more and Laurens’ see the ball bounce right off the imposing stone, barely a crack to show for it. Two men fall on the front line in the grass expanse in front of the house. He cannot fall back; they cannot let this garrison stand.

“No.” Laurens shakes his head and pulls his weight off White. “I must stand here.”

“But Laurens –”

“Here.” Laurens unsheathes his sword, wincing at his shoulder’s movement. Then he slides the blade in between his uniform and his green aide-de-camp riband. He slices down, tearing the cloth in two. Then he pulls at one end until the fabric comes free. He holds out the cloth to White. “My wound can be seen to.”

White frowns at him. “I… do not…”

Laurens shoves his sword back into its sheath. Then puts one end of the riband against his wound. He turns his chin to the side to hold the cloth in place then uses his left hand to wrap it around his shoulder and under his arm. He keeps it tight as he may against the wound, even gritting his teeth at a spike in pain. Then stops with two short ends and looks at White. White sighs then steps forward and ties the two ends firm against Laurens’ bloody uniform.

“There,” Laurens says, “I have been seen to and it should help the flow of blood, yes?”

White nods. “Yes.”

Laurens turns back to the battle, several rows of men in front of him still firing. He sees General Maxwell far to the left, nearer the side of the house. He shouts something and a group of men move forward to the back walkway between the kitchen and the house. They carry what must be a recently felled tree and attempt to ram the back servant’s door. Laurens sees some British lean further from an upper window, shooting down. Knox shouts something again as the cannons fire and chunks of stone fly back toward them. 

A young man suddenly runs up to Major White. “Sir, Major White, sir?”

“Yes?”

He hands White a message, White quickly flipping it open. White mutters to himself as he reads, “Sullivan and Wayne separated in the fog… Sullivan’s men still pushing the British line back…” Then White folds the paper quickly and runs in the direction of General Maxwell, the young man following.

Laurens watches them for a pause then turns his eyes back to the mansion. He stares at the front door, half off from their cannon fire but now with what appears to be furniture piled in place of the missing half. Laurens runs down the line to a New Jersey regiment.

“Men,” He shouts, “we must take more decisive action here.” He gestures to five men. “We shall storm the front door. It is wood unlike the rest of this impenetrable stone.”

A pair of the five look at him in dismay, another resolutely determined and the other two as eager as he.

“Sir… I do not think…”

Laurens shake his head, pointing at another two men behind the reluctant pair. “You two as well and load your rifles now. On my mark follow me, our aim is the front door.”

The Captain of the regiment slides up next to Laurens. For a moment he looks at if he might protest but then Laurens sees his eyes linger of the green riband tied and bloody around Laurens’ shoulder. His eyes snap back up to Laurens’. “Yes, sir.”

Laurens pulls out his sword once more and turns toward the house. He feels an ache in his shoulder that somehow only adds urgency to his desire to charge.

“Now!” He shouts and he runs from the line of soldiers and straight at the house.

Gunshots fly on either side of them, the sound of the cannon moved toward the north side of the house, feet pounding behind Laurens and Laurens cries out a ‘huzzah,’ the men echoing a yell behind him. They race across the open grass and dirt between the American line and the British held house. Laurens reaches the stone steps first and takes them two at time until his sword connects with a chair leg wedged in the door opening. Beside him, a Corporal slams his shoulder in the half door left, the wood creaking against the pressure. A Private ducks down below Laurens, trying to shoot through a gap in the woodwork. Laurens hears his shout and sees him fall back, a bayonet disappearing back into the house. Laurens lashes out with his sword, trying to catch whatever part of the solider inside he may but hears no response of anger or pain. A pair of Privates come between himself and the Corporal carrying a wooded bench previously in place for visitors beside the stairs. They ram in against the wood, once then twice.

“Again!” Laurens hears the Captain just behind them shout.

The bench bangs against the wood again, the door creaking loudly in its frame and least once piece of furniture within falling back from what Laurens hears.

“Come on!” Laurens cries, hacking at the wood with his sword. “Harder!”

A bayonet stabs through the wood once more, catching the cloth of Laurens’ jacket, ripping a hole. He hears men shouting inside the house. “Bayonets, go on, bayonets!”

One of the Privates holding the bench falls back, his hands over his eye and blood streaming down his face. The Corporal on the opposite side shouts, hand at his side and stumbling so he falls completely off the stairs. A gunshot hits the wood right above Laurens’ head and he cannot tell if it were enemy or friendly fire.

“Hit it again!” The Captain shouts but the bench has half fallen down now with one man lost and it scrapes near uselessly over the stone with a piercing sound even as the Captain helps to push from the rear.

The one man still holding the bench nearest Laurens shouts as a bayonet stabs him superficially in the arm through a crack. Another slices at Laurens’ once more, losing him a button.

“Pull back!” The Captain shouts.

“Wait!” Laurens snaps but the man beside him starts to retreat, dropping the bench. The remaining Privates beyond the bench jump from the stairs to follow. Laurens’ lip curls and he snaps, “Cowards!”

“Retreat, sir!” A hand grabs the back of Laurens collar, yanking him away from the barricade and another thrust of a bayonet through the wood.

“Let me go!” But Laurens cannot stop the momentum of the other man – it is the Captain he does not know the name of. 

They retreat back to the American lines, a Private in front of them ducking American fire and another practically rolling under rifle barrels as he makes for safety.

“We needed only more time!” Laurens snarls at the Captain as he makes for the rear of the lines. “You gave up with little fight and –”

“We could not well fight their bayonets tearing us apart! You are wrong, sir, and shall not sacrifice the lives of all my men!”

Laurens sneers at him and turns sharply away. He will not suffer such paltry excuses. He will find other men and other means. Laurens marches away from the Captain, his sword still in hand. He glances down at his uniform and decides to worry later about its near ruined state with blood and holes and less buttons. Lafayette would surely chide him were he here in the battle and not still recovering from their last battle. Indeed, if Hamilton should see Laurens now he would likely force Laurens bodily from the field. Laurens thinks, in a moment of clarity through the fog and gun smoke and noise, that he wishes now to hold Hamilton so tightly it would bruise and kiss him no matter whom may see.

 

“Word from Sullivan,” Meade says as he clambers into the dining room of their make shift war rom. “They still engage the main line. He is unsure of Wayne’s position.”

“The fog must separate them,” Harrison says. “But Wayne is sure to engage the line as well. I do not think them so far apart.”

“And what of Armstrong?” General Washington says looking to Hamilton.

Hamilton shakes his head. He rode out a mile at least to where Armstrong’s force should be but did not find them. “I suspect they still engage the hessians back where they began. They must not have advanced where planned.”

“And Greene?” The General asks as Reed just enters the room.

“They are engaged with the British line as well, though General Stephens appears to be lost somewhere further on. Greene cannot account for him.”

“Sir,” Meade says.

“And Cliveden?” Tilghman asks. “We hear the cannon well. Is it not yet taken?”

“Fitzgerald is sent out,” Harrison says.

“Sir,” Meade says again.

General Washington turns to the window and holds a spy glass to his eye in the direction of the barrage. Harrison leans close as if he could see through the General’s eyes and Hamilton feels very much as if he would wish the same.

“The fog is too thick,” the General says in clear annoyance as he pulls the glass down.

“Sir!” Meade says a third time, loudly enough that all the men in the room finally turn to him. He blows out a harsh breath. “Sullivan’s troops run low on ammunition and the British no longer fall back.”

Hamilton looks sharply at Harrison. He hears cannon blasts and the shout of men. He imagines he hears Laurens’ voice somehow, a battle cry of anger, the face he saw when Hamilton rode up to him at Brandywine.

“Find Greene,” General Washington says to Reed then turns to Tilghman, “And Wayne.” He looks at Hamilton. “An order to each one, continue the assault and overwhelm the British.”

Hamilton slides down the table to waiting paper and ink while Harrison says something about Howe’s possible plan. Hamilton does not march from the room, he does not ride toward the fight or the mansion; he writes and he waits, he waits.

 

Gunshots ring so consistently they sound like rain. One man tries to rush a lower window with a flaming torch but falls within a yard as a shot hits his hip. A Major tries to ride up close to the house, pistol in one hand and sword in the other, but a shot from an upper window easily takes out his horse.

Knox’s voice rings out with “reload” and “fire” to his artillery, a loop so consistent that the cannon fire afterward sounds near the same as his voice, loud and long and constant.

Laurens’ arm sears with pain more intense now but his chest burns harder with anger and frustration. They cannot let the garrison inside this house demolish them so. The British position may be fortified, it may be a higher ground but the British have fewer numbers, perhaps a hundred men inside against all of Maxwell’s brigade and the men Sullivan left behind. Laurens will not allow defeat here. He cannot. He fires his loaded pistol again as he stands with the New Jersey line. This time – perhaps the only time – he sees a man in an upper righthand window fall back in answer to his shot. He cannot tell for sure, it may have been another man’s gun but it cheers Laurens just the same.

“Fire on!” Laurens says. “Do not give up.”

White stumbles into standing beside Laurens. “We must gain ground.”

“I know.”

“Something closer, the doors.”

“We have tried!”

“Oui, and must encore.” Laurens turns to the new voice behind White. He recognizes the man, a French officer, a Chevalier de Mauduit du Plessis if he recalls correctly. “I think you a man of action, oui Monsieur?”

“Oui,” Laurens replies.

Du Plessis gestures toward the house. “I say if cannon is not enough, then we may try fire.”

“Our gun fire….” White starts but Du Plessis waves a have.

“We burn them out.” He points toward the near barn, just visible at the edge of the fog. “We gather hay and burn the men out of their fort.”

Laurens grins at him. “Lead on!”

Du Plessis turns immediately and rushes toward the barn, Laurens and White following. They duck under friendly fire and past the cannons. Laurens thinks he hears Knox yelling after them but they do not stop. The haze around them clears more as they near the barn, away from the added smoke of artillery. Du Plessis reaches the doors first, wrenching them open easily. Inside, Laurens sees the rear door open and no animals remaining in their stalls. He sees a carriage with a broken wheel, possibly pieces stolen to fortify the house? He does not think on it long as White climbs up a ladder to the rafters and starts to throw down bales of hay.

“Enough?” He calls down.

Du Plessis picks up two and leaves the barn once more without an answer. Laurens picks up two himself and looks up at White. “Do bring your own as well.”

White gives him a look but turns back to grab more bales. Laurens does not wait for White but follows the Frenchman back toward the house. They run through the fog and around to the front door once more. Laurens hears what sounds like a cheer or a startled laugh – from their side or the British, he does not know. Du Plessis drops his hay at the door then shoves the bench used earlier to ram the door back onto the grass. As Laurens piles his hay beside Du Plessis’, the Frenchman stands on top of the bench and pulls open the shutters of the nearest window.

“Du Plessis, what are –” Then Laurens cuts himself off as the man jumps up onto the windowsill. “Dear Lord!” He shouts with a grin.

Laurens shoves the hay tight against the door just as White appears beside him, dropping one more bale in place with one hand, while he holds a lit torch in his other. Laurens leans off the edge of the stairs as White tries to light the hay.

“What do you think you are doing?” Laurens hears a British voice from within say to Du Plessis.

Laurens wraps his left arm around a pillar and steps up onto one of the stone lion statues which flank either side of the door – somehow still intact after all their shooting. 

Laurens sees the Frenchman grin at the redcoat within. “I am only taking a walk.”

Laurens laughs once despite the situation then sees from his angle the other British officer enter the room and pulls up his pistol. Laurens opens his mouth to shout, to tell Du Plessis to jump back, tries to pull his sword in time, but then the British Regular fires. Laurens gasps but Du Plessis does not fall, instead it is the first Briton who spoke to Du Plessis. He drops to his knees with the accidental shot in his side. Then his own pistol goes off as he hits the floor. Laurens suddenly cries out in surprise, the shot just nicking him in the side as well. He groans and touches the tear in his waistcoat but feels no blood despite the pain. Du Plessis jumps back from the window once more as the officer inside advances.

“The fire,” Du Plessis says, walking backward. “Set the hay to burn and pull back.”

“It has started,” White says as Laurens clambers down from the lion, holding the fresh ache in his side. He sees White shove the torch completely under the hay and some smoke now coming from the base. White stands up straight again. “It is burning!”

Then a pair of bayonets thrust through the slits in the wood. A bale of hay knocks off the top of the stack, rolling away. Laurens shouts as pain stabs from his wounded shoulder in the same moment that blood spurts from White’s lips as metal pierces through his jaw and mouth.

“White!” Laurens shouts even as he feels himself stumbling back from the bayonet in his shoulder.

White falls forward into Laurens’ arms, coughing blood up and they both tumble down the stairs. Laurens hits the ground, his hat crushed beneath him and White mostly on top of him. He hears a voice shouting in French. He sees the hay over White’s shoulder, half fallen off the steps and the rest only smoking, no real flames to catch the wooden door. He pulls himself out from under White until he stands. His vision blurs, his head spins and he grabs White’s arm. He sees the outline of Du Plessis pulling at White’s other side. They move and Laurens knows they must retreat with White between them. He feels something wet – blood or sweat or, yes, blood – on his hands. Then he falls to his knees; he must be behind their lines now because of all the blue and red cloth around him. He feels nauseous and his shoulder hurts so much he wants to scream. He puts his hands in the dirt and see White lying near him. Someone’s hands hold White’s cheeks but blood still comes up between their fingers. Laurens swallows back bile, sees blood drip onto his hand from his own shoulder.

Laurens whispers his own name toward White, “John… John?”

White stares up at him, his mouth moving but no sound coming out, only more blood. Then his eyes roll back and someone says, ‘no, damn it!’ Laurens sees White’s pupils twist, turning toward Laurens once more then White’s eyes close as his body seizes then stops. 

Laurens wrists shake with the force of keeping him up and the pain seems to reach his brain now – only aches and an incessant stabbing and the clenching of his stomach and – White is dead, he is dead – and Laurens’ vision narrows and narrows and he feels himself fall forward into the dirt.

 

Hamilton no longer waits but rides in retreat with General Washington, Harrison beside him and Tilghman at his rear. Sullivan’s brigade ran so low on ammunition they were forced back. It appears, from Meade’s report, that Wayne’s brigade became cut off and were forced back as well. Reed even returned with word that General Stephen’s men accidentally fired on Wayne’s what with the fog and misdirection they took.

“We did not even take the Chew mansion,” Harrison says gruffly to Hamilton.

“The house was far more well built than we could have known,” Hamilton huffs. “Yet with so much cannon it seems impossible it did not fall.”

Fitzgerald rides up now beside them. “They are withdrawing from Cliveden as well, pulling back the cannon. We cannot leave it to be taken.”

Hamilton hears the sounds of gunfire far behind them. The British still attack their rear as they retreat, pushing their lines back from where they came. They have gained no ground at all on their offensive march. All they have accomplished was to lose men and ammunition.

“Do we have numbers on those lost yet?” Hamilton asks.

Harrison and Fitzgerald make matching noises of disbelief.

“Wait until we escape,” Tilghman says from behind them.

“Retreat, not escape,” Fitzgerald says. “We are not convicts in flight.”

“Worry less on words!” Tilghman calls back.

“We did well for a time,” Harrison says and Hamilton looks sidelong at Harrison then forward once more as he sees Meade ride up next to His Excellency from his report back along the march. “We pushed them back into their own camp.”

“We did,” Hamilton says, feeling less as though his own actions aided enough. He remembers Trenton, lesser rank but men and artillery under his command.

“What became of Armstrong?” Fitzgerald asks.

Hamilton shakes his head. “Reed was sent with orders for their retreat. I pray he finds them and not just as dead or captives.”

“The British could not overtake his whole brigade.”

“At this moment I think many dark things.”

“Hamilton!” Meade slows his horse to come along side their trio. Fitzgerald and Harrison urge their horses on nearer the General so Meade may speak closer to Hamilton.

Hamilton glances at Meade as they ride on. Meade’s face appears drawn. 

“What is amiss apart from this retreat and loss?” Hamilton asks.

“It is Laurens.” Hamilton turns his head sharply toward Meade this time. Meade’ lips press tight then he says, “He is wounded and not as inconsequentially as Brandywine.”

 

Laurens stumbles as he walks. He is conscious of one man at his side keeping him moving. He cannot tell where they go as his eyes seem to close when he thinks them open. He hears gunfire behind him. He trips forward, the man at his side keeping him standing.

“Major… what of… Major White?” Laurens says.

“Not now. Into the cart, sir, you cannot walk.”

Laurens feels his knees hit wood. He remembers White is dead. Laurens saw him die. Then he twists and he knows he lies on his back. He tires to opens his eyes, sees leaves above him through a haze. He hears gunshots still, he hears... Laurens wants to hear one voice.

 

It is midday once they reach their encampment again. It appears the British put off their attack on their retreat due to Sullivan and Wayne’s divisions viciously defending their rear. There is still a chance Howe may press the advantage and try to overwhelm their force as their own plan had been upon their first march. However, they seem safe for the moment and able to assess their losses.

“Colonel Laurens?” Hamilton asks as he stops at the second tent of wounded he finds. A surgeon calls into the back but the response appears unclear. Hamilton looks at the faces he can see, more Virginia uniforms than any other.

“No, sir,” a Corporal finally answers him.

Hamilton nods once and turns out of the entry of the tent. A few men sit outside, slings on their arms or bandages wrapped around minor head wounds. His brain tries to race, he wants to run, to burst into every tent until he sees familiar blond hair and the line of jaw he has cupped close with his hand. He thinks he cannot allow Laurens injured when there is still so much future yet before the two of them, so many private moments they have had which do not add up to the many Hamilton should want.

“Do not thrash, Colonel, you make yourself worse!” Hamilton hears suddenly and in a primal way he knows.

Hamilton rounds away from the sick tent and down the line toward the voice.

“He cannot stand –“

“Sir, if you –“

“I do not think he hears you.”

“Damn, the blood is…”

Hamilton steps into the next line of tents and sees two men supporting a third between them. A man wearing a blood-stained apron points them into a smaller tent. “I have a table here, bring him.”

The third man, the wounded man, is Laurens. He slumps as they carry him, clearly at most half-conscious. Then he disappears into the tent with the men helping him as Hamilton hurries in their direction. Hamilton ducks under the tent flap a minute later. He sees Laurens’ coat on the ground and he picks it up without thinking. Two cots with a man each lie on one side of the ten and a surgical table on the other. Hamilton steps in further toward the table where Laurens lies, the doctor unraveling a stained cloth from Laurens’ shoulder.

“What are his injuries?” Hamilton asks suddenly. “How does he fare?”

“Who are you, sir?” The doctor asks. “And who is he?”

“I am Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton, he is John Laurens; both aide-de-camp to General Washington.”

The two soldiers who carried Laurens into the tent, waiting in the middle of the space, look sharply at Hamilton either in alarm or awe, possibly both. They look back to each other then to Laurens on the table. Laurens’ head jerks somewhat from side to side, as if in a dream or a nightmare.

“Well then,” the doctor says somewhat tersely. “Would you help now or whisk him away to some better doctor?”

“I would help,” Hamilton says urgently, clutching at Laurens’ coat.

“Then off you both,” the doctor says to the two men, “and you,” he points at Hamilton then to the ground beside himself, “right here.”

“Of course, will you please inform his excellency,” Hamilton says to the men, “tell him or Colonel Harrison where I and Laurens might be found.”

They both nod and say at once, “yes, sir.”

Hamilton moves beside the doctor as the doctor drops the bloodied cloth to the ground. Hamilton’s eyes catches on the green and realizes the cloth his Laurens’ aide-de-camp insignia riband. Then he looks up once more as the doctor pulls at Laurens’ waistcoat.

“Help me, his other side.”

Hamilton switches around the table. He reaches for Laurens’ clothing and realizes he still holds Laurens’ coat. He looks around for somewhere to put it and finally hangs it over one of the support ropes for the tent. He turns back to the table, seeing Laurens’ waistcoat half off from the doctor pulled over the wound. Hamilton reaches under Laurens and pulls at the garment until he has it completely around and down Laurens’ opposite arm. The waistcoat he lets fall to the ground. He moves to try and help with Laurens’ shirt.

“Over his head, quick as you can,” the doctor says. “Or I’ll just rip it.”

Hamilton considers telling him to do so, with the tear from whatever hurt Laurens and blood all over the shoulder it would be a miracle if the shirt could be saved. However, Hamilton’s voice catches in his throat at the sight of so much blood so close to Laurens’ neck and heart. This is not like Brandywine, not just an ankle wound or even Lafayette with blood coating his calf on a Quaker dining table. This is danger.

They pull the shirt from Laurens’ breeches, rolling it high until they near his wound. The doctor lifts Laurens’ head so Hamilton may pull the shirt over his head first then down over his shoulders. Laurens cries out and his eyes open as they aggravate his shoulder wound. Hamilton holds both of Laurens’ hands in some semblance of assistance as he gets the shirt off completely. Laurens’ head turns toward Hamilton, his eyes wide and confused.

“You are at camp,” Hamilton says, “you are safe.”

Laurens’ fingers squeeze tightly around Hamilton’s while the doctor pours a bit of water over the wound, washing away blood and dirt. Laurens’ lips part and then his eyes clench tight again as the doctor presses fingers and some metal instrument into Laurens’ wound. Laurens’ shouts and he knocks his head back against the wound.

“You’re hurting him!” Hamilton snaps angrily at the doctor.

“I must see if a bullet remains,” the doctor snaps back. “Would you prefer he bleed more or the bullet move further into his flesh?”

Hamilton swallows and stares at Laurens’ face, the tight pull of his mouth and creases around his eyes.

“Here,” the doctor insists, “here, hold his arms.” 

Hamilton moves once more around the doctor’s side of the table then holds Laurens’ bare biceps against he wood. Laurens whimpers then groans hard, turning his head away as the doctor sticks his fingers straight into the wound along with his knife. Laurens screams then the sound suddenly cuts off as he falls unconscious again. Hamilton drops his head to stare at the grass beneath them, his hands tight on Laurens’. He swallows back nausea at Laurens’ torn flesh and anguished cries. Then he looks up once more as he feels the doctor shift.

“Nothing,” the doctor says. “It looks to have gone through. He should not need surgery.”

“No bullet?” Hamilton asks almost needlessly.

“Yes,” The doctor wipes his hands on his apron then turns to a folding table beside him piled with bandages. “We must wrap this now.” He holds up a thick piece of gauze. “Press that hard.”

Hamilton holds the gauze against Laurens’ bloody shoulder as the doctor wraps a longer bandage around Laurens’ shoulder and across his chest to hold it in place. Hamilton keeps his fingers over the gauze so it does not fall while the doctor wraps. He watches Laurens’ face and is thankful now Laurens is spared some pain.

“The wound is less serious then?” Hamilton asks.

“He does not need surgery, that is surely a blessing.”

“But will he… will he worsen, could he…” Hamilton stares at the dressed wound as the doctor ties the cloth tight. Hamilton’s voice drops low. “Could he die?”

The doctor pulls back and finally turns to Hamilton. He shrugs a shoulder. “It is a lesser wound to be sure but one cannot rule out infection or fever.”

 

Laurens opens his eyes – he sees white, no tan, not sky, canvas, a tent. His eyes slip closed again and his head rolls despite his efforts. He lies on something, a cot.

He hears, “stay still, Laurens, please.”

Laurens knows that voice.

“His head is warm now, is it –”

“You think it fever?”

Laurens feels hot – no cold. He feels a hand touching his face.

“Oh god… John…”

Laurens knows that voice. He hears… he thinks he hears…

 

Hamilton sits beside Laurens’ cot. Due to his rank and position in General Washington’s office, a private tent was arranged for Laurens’ convalescence. The sounds of camp permeate outside the tent but within it is fortunately silent and solitary. Night has fallen now and Laurens’ brow shines wet with fever. One candle lights the tent, no one but they two within. Harrison, Meade and Tilghman all visited in past hours asking after Laurens’ state. Harrison brought well wishes from Fitzgerald and demands for updates from General Washington; even Reed sent a servant with a canteen of water. It appears the whole of His Excellency’s office worries after their fallen man. 

Hamilton picks up his handkerchief and uses it once more to soak up the sweat on Laurens’ face. Laurens lies on the cot bandaged well and wearing only his breaches. A sheet bunches at the end by Laurens’ feet. At times Laurens shivered with cold and in need of it, but now he feels hot to the touch once more. 

Hamilton rubs a hand across his own brow. He glances to the second folding chair in the tent where his coat lies on top of Laurens’. He did not think until now about a transfer of blood stains to his own coat but what should it truly matter?

“John.” Hamilton turns his head back to Laurens on the cot. “Can you hear me now?” Laurens head shifts slightly. “You have laid still for so many hours and shook for the others. Is it not enough?” 

Hamilton reaches out and touches Laurens’ cheek. He wants so desperately to do something else for his friend, his close friend, his dearer man. There is nothing more he can do than sit and watch, give water when needed and mop at Laurens’ brow.

“What would you wish?” Hamilton whispers. “If there were something I could do and you should wake with no more fever, what would you ask?”

Hamilton hunches closer in his chair so his knees touch the edge of Laurens’ cot. He runs his hand up Laurens’ cheek so his fingertips stop at Laurens’ hairline.

“Would you prefer sweet words? Request for your kiss?” Hamilton leans close and kisses Laurens’ still lips once. He stares at Laurens’ face, relaxed more in his sleep. 

Hamilton leans back again, glancing once at the tent flaps. They are closed and safe as can be expected in their army camp. Hamilton looks to Laurens again then reaches out and takes Laurens’ closer hand. He threads their fingers together.

“I heard stories of your actions at the mansion from men there. Some tell of your bravado and others call you reckless.” Hamilton smiles briefly. “I think they both correct and you should agree. Charging through enemy and American fire alike? Making straight for the front doors on two occasions? The state of your coat and self shows you what that brings.”

Hamilton laughs with false cheer then huffs out a heavy breath. He does not know why he bothers to keep his tone light now when no one else hears but himself. He swallows and shuts his eyes. He rubs a hand across his brow once more. He squeezes Laurens’ fingers tight then opens his eyes again.

His voice comes out stern when he speaks. “Why should you behave so very rashly?” Hamilton runs his other hand over the fingers he clasps tight. “Do you think of your life so cheaply? Do you think I would not mourn? You said the same of me when I returned half drowned. Did you think it my turn for such woes?”

Hamilton sighs again. He looks at the bandages across Laurens’ chest, Laurens’ other hand on the opposite side of his body, fingers and palm up, curled and slack. Hamilton’s eyes travel up Laurens’ body, a bruise in his side with a center point likely from a gunshot. It reminds him of Brandywine and Laurens’ ankle. His eyes then reach the blood stained portions of cloth tight around Laurens’ shoulder. He sees marred skin just visible around the edges of bandages. He pulls his top hand away to run gently over the angry red. Hamilton huffs again, closes his eyes, and tells himself, ‘he will not die.’

Hamilton opens his eyes and smiles despite the fear, despite the pain he cannot soothe in himself with Laurens so still and his forehead wet and his breath slow. “What should I say to you then to have you well? Should I tell you how much I care for you? How much I would rather lie here beside you?”

“You must ask me questions, ask me…” Hamilton huffs again, thinking too much of dark things he will not say aloud. “Ask what I thought when I first met you. Do you recall? It was a tent, just as this, the General, Lafayette there too and then you, charming, dashing even. You cut such a divine figure even without your uniform.” He smiles to himself. “Better in it, I dare say. Perhaps you will look the most so when I see you fully out of it.” Hamilton laughs in a hollow way.

Hamilton looks back down at their hands together. He sees some dirt and maybe blood under Laurens’ nails. One appears cracked from whatever feat of battle daring Laurens did that day. He wonders how near Laurens may have come to actual death on the field, no chance for the surgeon or rest in bed as now. He fists his one hand then forces it to relax again. He knows he has no opportunity to reverse time and find Laurens on the field to drag the man back with his own two hands.

“That first day, I recall us speaking much,” Hamilton continues on his nostalgic track. “It is only some months back now though to me it feels ages. We have spoken so much since but perhaps still too little.” Hamilton blows out a breath. “I know enough of myself to know my own guard and what I keep within my chest.” He looks up again at Laurens’ face. “If I told you more would you wake to hear it?”

Laurens breathes in deeply, a soft noise like pain from his lips. Hamilton looks at the handkerchief but Laurens does not appear to sweat more. Perhaps he truly does start to hear Hamilton’s voice through his fever?

“I thought you a man who could be a friend when first we met. I know some people turn every person they encounter into friends. Lafayette should wish that and causes such often; Meade as well. Reed… well, he quite the opposite. I am not one who tries for easy friendship and you… you did not seem that to be your goal. When slavery came up between us and I, one of the few you had met, and still you risked my possible ill regard or censure with such strong convictions as to its evils. I find respect a thing to be earned and you earned it so very quickly then.” Hamilton shakes his head. “I wonder I had not known at once what might happen between we two.” He cocks his head at Laurens. “Did you know?”

Hamilton finds he oddly wants an answer to this last question, not just ramblings to keep himself sane while he waits for the opening of Laurens’ eyes.

“What else might you ask me?” Hamilton continues. “I give you the option now if you will return my answer with your own recovery? How does that deal fare? I think it fair enough with how few know much about myself and all I ask is your own health.”

Laurens shifts in his sleep; his head turns more toward Hamilton, his lips parted. Hamilton wants to kiss him again. He leans closer and touches Laurens’ cheek. He thinks Laurens’ may feel less hot and sick but he cannot be certain. Hamilton kisses Laurens’ lips again, only pulls back slightly so he feels Laurens’ breath on his face.

“You should wake soon. It has been hours and what would the General say of such lethargy? Meade would jest of you so and Harrison chide.”

Hamilton dips his head so his forehead rests against Laurens’. He feels something of a fool to keep talking and fidgeting. Hamilton knows himself able to be patient but this causes his nerves undue stress. He wants to act as Laurens does, rash and sudden and righteous but Laurens lying in bed is not a battlefield Hamilton may draw sword upon or a behavior to write in criticism of. He has no powers to wield in this fight.

“You asked me that first day, I recall this, from where I hailed and I said I was schooled in New York. You did not ask again where I was before that.” Hamilton laughs quietly as he pulls back enough to see Laurens’ face. “I did not ask you either. I knew of your South Carolina roots. We were told before you arrived. Perhaps I should have. If I do not ask of your past, I cannot expect to learn it. I do not know what your days were like as a youth. Were they a trial as mine? I would think with such a fortune to your name, you would have luxury and ease but I am not also so station minded as to think wealth brings complete ease of all portions of a man’s countenance.”

Hamilton thinks of how Laurens may have looked as a young boy. Did he find comfort in the promise of the ocean as Hamilton did? What made him smile, who made him laugh? What made him cry? What of his upbringing in the south turned him so against slavery? Where did his daring come from?

“I was raised on an island,” Hamilton whispers, honesty slipping through the hole made by worried fear. “Further south than you, hotter, harsher, in the Caribbean. Nevis is where I was born, the city of Charlestown.” He chuckles. “Strange that we both have a Charlestown entwined in our histories. Though most of my youth was spent not there but in St. Croix.”

Hamilton thinks of his brother, James, a face which has begun to fade in his memory; his father’s face even more so, much like a dream now. Hamilton squeezes Laurens’ hand – he thinks, if Laurens should die, how long would it take for his face to disappear from Hamilton’s memory and heart?

“St. Croix I would imagine much different than your South Carolina,” Hamilton whispers aloud, his throat choked and tight. “And I think… I think all my struggles there might be preferable in this moment than a loss of my sweet you.”

“Then you shall not lose me.”

Hamilton whips his head up so quickly he hears a crack from his neck. Hamilton nearly heaves himself straight onto the cot as he grabs Laurens’ cheek and looks down at Laurens’ now open eyes. 

“John,” he breathes out and smiles wide. “God, John, you’re awake.”

Laurens smiles, his expression tired and strained. “I am, though much of me wishes not to be.”

“Do not say so,” Hamilton says, his tone harsher than he intends. “You have laid so for enough hours now that I demand you awake and attentive.”

“Attentive?” Laurens tries to laugh but it turns into a cough. “As you wish.” He blinks several times, his eyes twisting around. “Where am I?”

“Camp. You were injured.”

“Yes, I recall that.”

“You have been feverish.” Hamilton pulls his hand away from Laurens’ cheek and touches Laurens’ forehead. It feels less warm for certain this time. “I think you may have broken through it.”

Laurens nods and attempts to sit up but lies back with a hiss of pain before Hamilton can force Laurens down himself.

“Did I not just say you are injured?”

Laurens nods. “You did say.” He sighs once then swallows. “The battle?”

“Do not think on that now.” Hamilton reaches to the ground with his free hand and picks up the canteen. He brings it up to Laurens’ lips, Laurens leaning up just enough to drink.

Laurens lies back and closes his eyes. “You mean to say, it was a defeat.”

“I do not care of the whole battle in this moment,” Hamilton snaps, “only you.”

Laurens opens his eyes once more, looking at Hamilton. He smiles slightly and his fingers flutter in Hamilton’s fingers. Then he squeezes Hamilton’s hand. “I am here.”

“Yes,” Hamilton laughs once in clear relief. “Yes, you are here.”

Laurens breathes quietly for a moment, his eyes shifting away. “The battle…”

“I said not to worry on this.”

"White died."

Hamilton frowns. "White?"

"Major John White... a friend." Hamilton only stares at him until Laurens looks toward him again. "I am alive."

"You are alive," Hamilton repeats and grips Laurens’ hand even tighter somehow, says a third time, “You are alive.”

Hamilton leans down and presses a heavy kiss to Laurens’ lips. He cups Laurens’ cheek, kisses him as hard as he can, if only to prove to himself Laurens kisses back awake and alive and on a path to being well and not cold and dead.

“Ham…” Laurens whispers against Hamilton’s lips. Hamilton gasps once and kisses Laurens again, touches his neck, his unmarked skin there. Laurens says, “Alex, dear.”

Hamilton finally pulls back – realizes how brazen he acts now when any other aide might burst into the tent asking after Laurens as they have before. Laurens looks up at Hamilton with bright blue eyes.

“If I thought you rash before,” Hamilton says by way of commanding his voice into something not frightened or thick with concern, “I think you doubly so now. I have heard all of your actions.”

“Hamilton…”

“Oh, do not think I will not call you carless and idiotic as well as brave. In fact, I should say you lucky not to have wounds far more than your mere shoulder.”

“Chide me so later, Alex,” Laurens says softly. “I shall bear it all then. Now let me hear your voice as it was.”

“As it was?” Hamilton says.

Laurens smile, weary. “Yes, I wished so to hear your words… when I fell, when it was only flashes of sky and light... And then I heard your voice now.”

Hamilton laughs quietly. “I said much you may have not heard. It has been hours.”

“You said ‘my sweet.’”

Hamilton smiles at the affection in Laurens’ tone, the drowsy smile on his face. “I did.”

“You said you hail from St. Croix.” Hamilton looks down at the grass, feels a measure of shame he knows he should not, not with Laurens. “Tell me of it.”

Hamilton looks up. “Of St. Croix?”

Laurens nods. He winces then his face stills once more. “I have never been to the Caribbean.”

Hamilton wants to chide Laurens again for the battle, to tell him of his fear before he knew where Laurens’ stood in the fight. He wants to talk about the doctor’s tent and his waiting at Laurens’ bedside, of all those who came to see him well. Hamilton wants to talk about kisses, wants to gives kisses and wants to prove his desire for Laurens. He wants less to talk about his past and the pain. But he also wants to see Laurens’ eyes and that smile on his face that seems to say, ‘my dear,’ that promises, ‘I would think no less of you.’

“Well, it is an island,” Hamilton says as he traces his fingertips over Laurens’ hand in his, the hand he has still not let go. “Surrounded by water as most islands are.” Laurens chuckles once and keeps watching him.

Hamilton smiles back and talks, he talks of hot air and unruly weather. He talks of the slope of King Street, of more slaves than free. He talks of sugar and cotton in the port awaiting ships. He talks little of his personal past – those pains – until he sees Laurens’ eyes slip closed and his breath ease. Hamilton keeps his hand in Laurens’, another battle lost and a friend injured but safe. As he watches Laurens sleep, Hamilton thinks of how Laurens said, ‘I heard you,’ and he waits for Laurens to say it once more when he wakes. He waits to say again, ‘my sweet,’ and hear Laurens say ‘my dear.’

**Author's Note:**

> This series is in the process of becoming a book, to keep up with the progress check out the book website [Duty and Inclination](https://www.dutyandinclination.com/) and my author [facebook page](https://www.facebook.com/DupontWrites).


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